


Revenge for the Vengeful

by Vexfulfolly



Category: Midnight Texas (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Headcanon, I love this friendship, The Manfred and Creek stuff is just there it’s not elaborated on, Whump, let me have a good friend fic thanks, manfred whump, manny is a powerful boy, more musings for angel heart, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 11:08:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15580632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vexfulfolly/pseuds/Vexfulfolly
Summary: An alternate ending to Angel Heart. One in which Manfred understands his power and begrudgingly uses it.





	Revenge for the Vengeful

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!! Back at it again with the alternate endings!! For some reason this particular episode resonated with me and I’ve been thinking about it a lot? 
> 
> I’m sorry that I write almost exclusively in whump :,^)

 

Bump.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bump.

 

 

 

 

 

Bump.

 

 

Bump. Bump.

Bump. Bump. Bump.bump.bumbumpbump

 

The sound of his heart beating against his eardrums was almost louder than the argument happening not more than thirty feet away. Hyperaware of everything around him, Manfred could feel the beads of sweat rolling down his neck, how many times per minute his hands trembled, and the throes of the dead around him.

 

Being hidden with Fiji was supposed to be the least stressful of all positions, but while she was busy ripping a hole into hell she wasn’t exactly in a motherly mood. So with his back to the wall and his anxiety growing, all he could do was wait and listen.

 

“You want compassion? Mercy? Ha— that’s not how I roll.”

 

As the voices of Joe and Bowie grew closer and closer, Manfred just tried to focus on the increasingly bright mirror before him, and shut out everything else. Screams, growls and everything in between swirled in the air as figures circled the fallen angels. But none of that was important now— it was a distraction. Flames licked at the corners of the glass as a world painted by red started coming into view. Slowly it seemed to solidify and judging by Fiji’s pinched expression, she was nearly done.

 

“I am so angry, Joe.”

 

The witch hadn’t even breathed a word and Manfred was lugging the mirror out from behind their cover. The metal holding the glass into place was scalding hot, but he hardly noticed his palms’ agony. The second it was positioned right, Manfred braced himself behind it— hoping to keep it steady.

 

“And when I’m angry, I want to kill things!”

 

The words hadn’t even left Bowie’s lips before she was being thrown his way. While Manfred has his back to the scene, he knew Lemuel had done his part, and if everything went well, all he’d have to do is break the mirror. The skin on his back was burning— from hell, or Bowie’s powers, he’d never know, because the next thing he remembered was being thrown into the wall he had once hidden behind. The world seemed to slow down for a moment, giving him all the time he needed to feel just how bad he’d been screwed.

 

Grains of glass were embedding themselves in the back of his neck and slicing through his shirt. His whole body was suspended in the air, riding the shockwave from the portal snapping closed. As his skull collided with the wall, his vision went to black—a sickening crack echoing in his ears. When Manfred’s senses came back to him, the world was moving, and the uncomfortable feeling of hands in his hair came next. Pain registered all over his body and without thinking about it he began to squirm, ignoring the taste of iron on his tongue.

 

“What’s your problem?”

 

A particularly hard jar to his head pulled a yelp from his lips and before he knew it, he was on his knees. The shadows of the night were dispelled for a moment as a glowing palm was placed on his forehead. A jumble of the last few days flew passed his eyes and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. Dry heaving into the dust, it felt like he was choking

 

Manfred doubled over in vertigo as Bowie erupted into a fit of laughter. “You really think you’re going to stop hell from swallowing this town whole— wow,” she giggled. “You have a really inflated sense of self.” As hurtful as her words were, the psychic was doing everything in his power to get the hell out of there, but to his chagrin, he was frozen in place. As she spoke, she grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and started dragging him to his feet.

 

“Hear me out,” she started, but she didn’t get any farther before Manfred spat in her face. Bloody and red, he made sure to aim for her eyes. A hiss of anger followed and then pain blossomed across his face as she punched him. The poor boy went airborne for the second time that day, only the world didn’t slow. A quick glance showed he had been flung into the middle of the street— Fiji still hiding behind the wall, and Olivia protecting Creek, with Bobo, in front of the Home Cookin’.

 

Fear no longer paralyzed him as he scrambled back to his feet, but as unsteady as he was, it took a moment. The dull throb of his usual headache was punctuated with a much more acute burn— from both the blood dripping from his skull, and the likely fractured cheekbone. “For such a divine child of god, you sure know how to throw a punch,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry— former child of god.”

 

As Bowie’s seething form approached him, she managed a bark of laughter— to which many of the spirits flinched away from. “You, kid, have balls,” she cooed. “But sadly, your girlfriend doesn’t.”

 

Worry spiked his blood as against his better judgement, he turned his gaze towards Creek. Manfred cared for her, he truly, truly did— so it was his first instinct to protect her. Not to run.

 

That was his mistake though, because when he changed his focus, he left himself wide open for the blow to his chest. Delivered with an open hand, Manfred was sure his heart stopped beating.

 

The constant up and down of being beaten to the ground was starting to get to him, making his attempt at standing much more difficult. Before he could even get off his knees, Bowie pushed him on his back and placed her foot on his throat. No matter how he clawed at her boot, she didn’t so much as budge.

 

Breathing was a struggle— every gasp a wheeze of pain. Blood was rushing to his head and blurring his vision, and for the first time in a long time, Manfred truly thought that he was going to die.

 

“Come on, Creek— meet your superhero!” Bowie shouted.

 

If Creek said anything, Manfred couldn’t hear it over his frantic batting and kicking. “Hush now, pretty boy. She knows the truth about you. You’re a scam artist. You lie for a living. Yeah— you see ghosts, but what’s the point of screwing the town psychic if he can’t give you a head’s up that you’re living with a serial killer.” Speaking in soft, almost motherly tones, Bowie looked down on Manfred with a twisted sense of pity. Pressing her boot down just a little farther, fully cutting off his air supply, she almost felt bad about killing him. But then again— did she really?

 

“You failed, Manfred,” she added, loud enough for everyone to hear.

 

bumpbumpbumpbump.bump. Bump.

 

Bump. Bump.

 

 

 

 

Bump.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bump.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Distantly Manfred could hear shouting, maybe a hit or two. As his vision blurred and blackened at the edges while tears fell from his eyes, he felt the world growing cold.

 

His hands weren’t working right any more— all of his blows were missing their target. He could hardly keep his eyes open.

 

So he stopped fighting back.

 

And through his blurred view of the world, he caught a glimpse of his fingers— more precisely the rings littering them. Suddenly, his hypoxic mind had an idea. Abandoning all efforts at freeing himself, he began shedding every piece of jewelry he wore, while trying to force a single word out of his damaged throat.

 

“…h… elp…”

 

The reaction was almost instant. The chill that had been crawling across his skin suddenly turned bone deep— and Bowie’s boot was torn away. Drinking in as much, albeit cold, air as possible, Manfred focused only on breathing. It took Bowie’s pained screaming to bring him back to reality. “What is this? How are you doing this?”

 

The jacket that she had originally worn was nothing but tatters, and her shirt hung loosely off her chest. The cause of her distress? Burns littered her body— ranging from just marks, to fingers, to full hand prints— and left holes seared through her clothes. However, there was no assailant in sight. Fiji hadn’t stepped in to help, Lemuel was leeching, the Rev was nowhere to be found, and the three other humans hadn’t moved an inch. While to the others, it may have seemed like a miracle, Manfred knew better.

 

The rings, the earrings, bracelets, everything that he wore acted like a deterrent. They sealed in his powers and purposefully weakened them. Being a medium didn’t just mean seeing and speaking to ghosts, it meant sharing a link and often times energy. The less that Manfred had to offer, the more unappealing he became. Removing all stops to his powers let the dozens of spirits piggy-back off of their newfound energy source— giving them the power to, say, burn another being. But no matter how powerful a spirit was, they always manifested cold.

 

It didn’t take long before Bowie’s screams became more garbled and frantic as the tissue on her body began to turn black and die— the freezer-burns slowing her movements. Her agonized wails soon turned to whimpers and whines as her legs no longer supported her, and her body collapsed. No one so much as dared to move until an eruption of light engulfed her body and she ceased moving altogether.

 

Tentatively the others started moving— like Bobo ushering Creek to somewhere safe, while Lemuel and Olivia started to discard of the body. Manfred, on the other hand, couldn’t find it in himself to move. He was still frozen in place with his eyes locked on Bowie’s frozen corpse. While most of the spirits that had followed her disappeared after her death— their desire now accomplished— only the locals remained. They watched him with intrigue, almost as if he’d entertained them.

 

Manfred was no stranger to death, but he’d always done everything in his power to prevent it. He wasn’t a killer. He wasn’t apathetic. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want anyone else to be hurt. He didn’t want to hurt people.

 

But he did.

He always did.

 

He was crying again, the tears of shock masked by the night. Using his powers to do something like this— to kill— just felt wrong.

 

Manfred was toeing the line between the proverbial, okay and not okay, but before he could fall to either side a hand gently touched his shoulder. “Goddess, Manfred, you’re freezing!” Fiji said from behind. As if by mentioning it, she made him realize his temperature because he began to shiver.

 

“Let’s just go inside,” he said quickly before getting up.

 

 

 

The witch had been watching the psychic for a minute or two before actually approaching him, hoping that he’d get up and take care of himself. Clearly, he needed a bit of nudging. But the second she touched his shoulder, she had to pull her hand away because of just how freezing he was. When he turned to face her and when he started to get up, she noticed that frost coated his clothing and that snowflakes were caught in his eyelashes. But considering just how frozen Manfred may have been, he seemed to be moving just fine (especially after the beating he’d taken). Something in the air was wrong— like the energies were unbalanced— so seeing him unharmed was reassuring.

 

Doing just as he suggested, Fiji trailed behind him into the diner and for the first time since this fiasco started, she got a good look at him. The back of his neck was coated in a layer of dried blood that matched the gently weeping gash on his forehead. His throat was already a ring of blues and yellows, mirroring the right side of his face perfectly. A mess of half swollen, half closed wounds, and freeze dried tears, Manfred had seen better days. He’d also seen worse.

 

Pushing him into a barstool, despite his protests, Fiji began working on his wounds. “Now don’t even try to get out of this,” she tutted. “I started carrying some herbs with me ever since the Rev got out. Luckily for you, they’ve got your name on them.”

 

“Yeah, lucky me,” he grumbled.

 

And for the next ten minutes, not a single word passed between the two, save for the occasional ‘this might sting.’ For Manfred, the silence wasn’t unusual, but for Fiji— it was the last thing anyone would expect. As she gently prodded and tended to the hematoma on his cheek. She decided to speak now, since there was no way he could hide his expression from her. “How did you do it?” She asked, frowning slightly at how he stiffened.

 

“It wasn’t me.”

 

“Those certainly weren’t your run of the mill parlor tricks, and as gifted as you are— you’re no witch, but at the same time, you’re the only one here I don’t know much about. So I’ll ask again: how did you do it?” While Fiji spoke, Manfred slowly dropped his chin, refusing to look at her— a petty act of defiance (or a plea for her not to pry).

 

Home Cookin’ was empty, just the two of them together, so why was he so hesitant? She was genuinely curious (concerned) as to how he’d been able to manifest such quantities of power. He was supposed to predict the future and see ghosts— not cast spells and freeze people to death! Deciding to take a more gentle approach, considering her straightforward one failed, she took the seat next to him and placed a hand on his (still cold) shoulder. “Look, I’m not trying to interrogate you, I’m just concerned, okay? You’re quiet, but not this quiet. I’m sure the others have questions too, and we both know how they’ll react.” She left just enough time for the two of them to reminisce on the memory of the psychic stripped and tied down before she started again.

 

“What’s so bad that you’re too afraid to tell me?” she pleaded. With every word the boy’s mask cracked, and his utterly pitiful expression peeked through until it all came crashing down. Fiji hadn’t seen him look this torn since… ever.

 

“I… can’t control them,” he said quietly. “And that makes me incredibly dangerous. Not just to myself but to everyone else.” There it was again— a type of spark or electricity in the air. She could feel it pushing on the veil, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from. For the second time that night, Fiji ignored it.

 

“What do you mean? You’re gonna have to give me more than that.”

 

Cold silence, followed by a sigh.

 

“If I don’t seal in my powers the spirits will use it to lash out on the living. I use every type of rune, sigil, and pentacle in existence to let off as little energy as possible. They’ll just use me to seek revenge, so I leave them powerless… as long as I’ve got my jewelry.”

 

The sad smile that slipped on his lips as he held up his hands— showing the distinct lack of rings and bracelets. Now that she thought about it, his earrings and necklaces were gone too. It clicked then; that in order to protect everyone he had to bind his powers and that everything they’d seen him do what hardly scraping the surface. It also meant he had enough readily available power that he could freeze an angel to death in a matter of minutes.

 

If Manfred was a witch, he’d give Fiji a run for her money.

 

As his explanation dawned on her, all the witch could ask was, “Why didn’t you tell us?”

 

“Some of us like to keep our threat levels to ourselves.”

 

And despite everything it’d insinuate, Fiji couldn’t help be say, “You have no idea.” Putting all seriousness to the side, the undignified snort that came from Manfred was enough to make her stifle a laugh.

 

“No, you don’t get to laugh! The most violent thing I’ve ever seen you do is stop that police car— but you bent the metal back after— you didn’t even damage it!” He snickered.

 

“Nah-uh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Fiji teased. “I’m as bad as they come.” And for some reason, in the middle of the night it just seemed like the funniest thing— trying to imagine Fiji as anything but the kindhearted girl she was— that the duo devolved into a fit of laughter.

 

When either one finally turned in for the night, neither could tell because some time later a couple glasses of beer were had, a bit more booze mixed in, and the whole event mixed together. But one thing was for certain, Manfred woke up to a box of jewelry on his porch and a smattering of yellow green bruises— while Fiji finally got to start piecing together the puzzle that was Manfred Bernardo.

 

 

 

And no one was any bit the wiser to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for the read!! Writing has come so slow lately, especially with summer work, low inspiration, and the impending school year. 
> 
> Regardless, happy (belated) Lammas! Look forward to an additional chapter on What Could Have Been as well!
> 
> Once again, thank you so, so, so much for all the kudos, comments and views. Speaking of, feel free to leave some more! I’m taking requests and am open to criticism. Catch me on here, or on tumblr @vexfulfun, or on IG @vexfulfolly


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